Finally, he takes the phone away from his ear and shoves it back into his pocket, shaking his head.
“No dice,” he says, that edge back in his voice. “You?”
“My phone’s out there,” I say, and turn to the door.
One option left. I cross the bathroom, raise my fist and pound on the wood.
“HELP!” I shout, still banging. “WE’RE STUCK!”
I’m rewarded almost immediately with footsteps.
“HEY!” a woman’s voice shouts.
“HEY, THE LOCK’S BROKEN!” I shout back.
“WHAT?”
“THE LOCK! IS BROKEN!”
“OH SHIT! CAN YOU GET OUT?”
I take a deep breath and close my eyes, because this clearly isn’t going to be simple.
“NO! WE’RE TRAPPED!”
Behind me, he’s pacing again, both hands jammed into his pockets, jaw clenched.
“I’M GONNA GET HELP!” the woman on the other side shouts. “STAY STRONG!”
“Fuck,” he mutters.
Step, step, turn. Step, step, turn. I watch as he goes back and forth, back and forth.
“Are you claustrophobic?” I finally ask, leaning against the door.
“No,” he says. “But I don’t exactly love being trapped in small spaces. No one does.”
“Some people do,” I point out. “It’s a whole fetish. People build themselves pods and lockers and — uh, I saw a documentary once.”
That was the Vacation talking.
“A documentary?” he asks, still pacing.
“You’re the one who knows what page forty-three of the pickup artist handbook says,” I point out.
“I saw a documentary.”
“Wiseass.”
That, at last, gets a smile.
“I was curious, so I picked up a manual,” he says. Step, step, turn. “It was like reading a car crash. I couldn’t look away.”
“Did they work?” I ask.
“HEY, ARE YOU OKAY IN THERE?!”
The woman on the other side of the door is back.
“YEAH,” I shout.
“I GOT THE BARTENDER!”
“DON’T USE THAT LOCK, IT’S BUSTED!” the bartender hollers. “I GOTTA GO CALL THE LOCKSMITH.”
“IT’S SUNDAY NIGHT!”
That’s my new bathroom friend, shouting from behind me.
“WHAT?”
“IT’S SUNDAY NIGHT!”
“WHAT?”
“THALIA!” shouts Margaret’s voice. “ARE YOU OKAY?”
I want to shout no, I’m trapped in a men’s bathroom with a very handsome stranger and I’ve been making a damn fool of myself for at least ten minutes now, but that’s too many words to shout.
“I’M FINE!” I holler.
“WE GOT SECOND PLACE!” she shouts. “WE WERE IN FIRST BUT THEN THERE WAS A SPORTS ROUND.”
The handsome man and I look at each other.
“Congratulations,” he says.
“Thanks,” I say, then turn back to the door. “GOOD JOB! YOU GUYS CAN LEAVE IF YOU WANT, YOU DON’T HAVE TO WAIT HERE FOR ME.”
“LET ME TALK TO VICTORIA AND HARPER,” she shouts, and then I hear footsteps heading away from the door.
“What was that about Sunday night?” I ask the man, because it seemed important at the time but we skipped past it.
“Only emergency locksmiths are open,” he says, one hand on his hip, the other running through his hair again in what’s clearly a stress-related gesture. “It’s gonna take hours. Shit. Why the hell haven’t they replaced the lock if they know it’s busted? Can’t they chop the door down with a fire axe or something? Give me an axe, I’ll do it.”
“Heeere’s Johnny,” I say. It gets a smile.
“Point taken,” he says, then turns slowly, looking around the bathroom.
When he gets to the window, he pauses, then glances over at me.
I shake my head.
“Too small,” I tell him.
“It’s not.”
“It’s too high.”
“I can get you up there.”
Now the buffalo are tap-dancing in my ribcage.
“You can go,” I say.
He looks at me like I’ve just casually suggested he light his own pants on fire.
“I can’t leave you here alone,” he says.
“Just toss my phone back through,” I say, shrugging. “And maybe a burger. I’ll be fine.”
“Okay, I was unclear,” he says, folding his arms over his chest. “I’m not leaving you trapped in a men’s bathroom.”
There’s that jello-in-my-chest feeling again.
He strides to the window and reaches up. His fingers find the crank, and after a few seconds of pushing, he turns it.
The tiny window starts moving, dislodging dirt and dust as it opens inward.
“See?” he says.
I flatten my hands against the front of my skirt. My not-indecent-but-definitely-on-the-short-side skirt.
“If you lift me who’ll lift you?” I ask.
The window’s all the way open and he steps back, brushing his hands against his jeans and giving me a relieved grin.
Hello, dimples. Hi. I missed you. You’re nice.
“I can manage,” he says. “Come on.”
My palms are sweating again, and I’m tempted to say something like oh really it’s fine, it’s so high up can you even lift me but that’s not really a question. He can definitely lift me.
Will I manage to keep my dignity while being hoisted through a window and wearing a skirt? Unclear.
“All right,” I say, and walk to the window.
He’s already standing there and he pushes away the garbage can, crouches, laces his hands together, and holds them out.
“Grab onto my shoulder for stability,” he says. “Don’t worry, I’ve done this before.”
I raise one foot to put it into his hands, then frown, bend down, and take my heeled boots off.